


blood and bone

by clokcwork_dragon



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, FE3H Whump Week, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Multi, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clokcwork_dragon/pseuds/clokcwork_dragon
Summary: A collection of drabbles written for the FE3H Whump Week event on twitter. Includes various characters and ships // warning for violence, gore and torture! Rated M for that reason.[ @fe3hwhumpweek on twitter ]
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Mercedes von Martritz, Flayn & Seteth (Fire Emblem), Flayn/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Jeralt Reus Eisner/Seteth, My Unit | Byleth/Rhea
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	1. Day 1: Impaled Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a few days late because I just realised this event exists, but hooo boy am I excited to destroy my faves. I'll mostly write Seteth, Flayn, Jeralt and Edelgard, but I definitely want to include some MercieAnnie and Rhealeth for the soul too.
> 
> Chapter 1 is basically an alternative scenario where the Agarthans captured Seteth instead of Flayn. Oops?

** Day 1: Impaled ~~Hands~~ Wings **

Seteth screams, once more futilely straining against the iron bonds that held him chained to the wall. His roar of pain and anger rattles the underground dungeon, and with the corner of his eye he sees one of his captors flinch, the syringe they were holding slipping from their hands and shattering upon the wet cobblestones. The sound brings him a miniscule amount of satisfaction.

_Good. Fear me. For when I’m free, I will tear you apart limb for limb, just like you’ve done to me._

He can feel the sane part of his mind slipping away, hiding in the darkest corner in an attempt to be spared from the continuous agony that has become of his existence. And in return, the ancient, untamed beast inside of him has begun to wake for the first time in millennia.

He jolts again, and a sickening _crack_ echoes in the chamber, followed by another wail of agony. Instinctively, he tries to flap his wings, broken as the joints are, to fly away from the pain. But it’s no use; all he manages to do is tear the flesh further where the membranes of his wings are nailed to the wall with slabs of Agarthium, burning holes where they make contact with his flesh. The same burn-like marks can be seen on his arms, his neck, torso and legs, where rings of the same vile metal keep him strapped in place, unable to move even an inch.

Seteth tastes blood at he back of his throat as he coughs, and the wet sound the liquid makes as it splatters on the floor below confirms the suspicion. He wheezes, his lungs straining against all the pressure and the drugs that had been injected into his system.

Yet the end is far from nearing; that, he knows. Nabateans have been built to resist tremendous amounts of pain, injuries and hardships that would have killed a normal human ten times over. In times of war, this asset is their greatest advantage.

And in times like this, it’s their greatest curse.

He knows nobody is coming to save him. Nobody can possibly know where he is, and even if they did, they would have come by now, right? It’s been a month ever since the first horrific day of torture. It’s been plenty of time for Rhea to search, to find him, to save him.

_They’re not coming. Nobody will come. I’m nothing to her, I never have been. She’s left me here to rot._

The thought succeeds into something weeks of agonising torture haven’t.

Tears slip from the Saint’s bloodied cheeks, falling onto the cobblestones below and mixing with his blood.

_I’m all alone._


	2. Day 2: Carved Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annette wants Mercedes to know that she's more than just her Crest. 
> 
> // trigger warning for self-harm! Proceed with caution.

** Day 2: Carved Mark **

“Mercie? Are you okay…?”

Mercedes wipes her eyes quickly as soon as she registers the knock on her door, and by the time Annette has walked in, she’s wearing her usual sweet smile.

“Oh, I’m sorry Annie. I must have stood you up in the library… I didn’t notice the time passing.”

“Don’t worry about that! Ashe helped me carry the tomes.” Annette smiles, and with a spring in her step she comes up to Mercedes’ bed before sitting down next to the older girl. She inspects her friend’s face closely, then, and frowns.

“Mercie! You’ve been crying!”

Mercedes sighs; it really is a losing battle, trying to hide her emotions from Annette. She knows her better than anyone else in the world.

“I really can’t hide from you, can I?” Her smile falters a little and her teeth worry over her lower lip. When she doesn’t speak further, Annette takes it upon herself to uncover whatever has been bothering her most beloved person in the entire world.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Annette asks, her small, elegant fingers closing around Mercedes’ wrist gently- and releasing it in shock just a moment later, when she feels the wetness that’s seeped through the sleeve. Annette notices the smear of red on her fingertips, and lets out a terrified yelp.

“Y-You’re bleeding! Did you get hurt?”

She tries to grab Mercedes’ hand and inspect the wound, but the latter pulls away, trying to keep her arm out of reach.

“No, Annie, I’m fine- it’s nothing-“

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing!” Now it’s Annette’s eyes that are filled with burning tears. “Y-You’ve hurt yourself… didn’t you? You’d promised you’d never do it again!”

Mercedes’ expression fills with shame and her downcast eyes stare at the plush carpet of her dorm. Annette is right- after their years together in the Fhirdiad School of Sorcery, she’d promised the other girl she would never again inflict such harm upon herself. She’d promised if she ever found herself hurting, she’d go straight to Annette instead. And yet here she is, having broken that promise not even a year into their time in the Officers’ Academy.

“It’s not what you think, Annie.” She whispers, her voice even softer than usual. She sounds almost afraid, and Annette lets out a small, choked sound.

“Then what is it?” She whimpers. “What did you do… _Why_ did you do it?!”

Instead of answering, Mercedes pulls her sleeve up to her elbow. Slowly, she unwraps the blood-soaked bandage around her wrist- and Annette gasps when the source of the bleeding is revealed.

A series of cuts shape the Crest of Lamine, carved deep into the upper side of Mercedes’ wrist. They’re still red and angry, laced with crimson strokes even though they’re no longer bleeding. But that’s not the craziest part, because Annette _has seen this scar before._

“You… That’s the scar your f-father gave you.” The redhead whispers, staring at the renewed scar in horror. “How is it bleeding again?!”

“I made it bleed.” Mercedes looks at Annette this time, lavender eyes filled with tears and shame. “To remind myself of what I really am. Just the vessel of Crest to be married off to some rich lord. Nothing else.”

“Why now?!” Annette’s face crumples with sorrow. “Did anyone say anything to you? Oh- I’ll find them, and I’ll crush them and-“

“Nobody said anything, Annie.” The fair-haired girl shakes her head. “But I… I’ve found myself thinking, recently, that maybe I could be something more like the rest of our friends. I just… had to remind myself of the truth.”

The next thing she knows, Annette’s arms are tightly wrapped around her, squeezing her so hard she can hardly breathe.

“I don’t care what your father says!” The younger girl shouts, tears trickling from her face onto Mercedes’ unbound hair. “You’re not just your Crest! You’re not an object! And- I won’t let anyone take you away, or make you do something that you don’t want to, Mercie!”

Annette buries her face in Mercedes’ neck, feeling the latter’s pulse beat fast against her cheek. She’s there, real, and alive, and Annette silently swears to the Goddess that nobody will ever harm Mercedes. Not again. Not ever again.

“No matter what, Mercie… I’ll stay by your side, forever.”

_Because I love you._


	3. Day 3: Empty Shell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seiros watches as her brother recovers; yet she knows part of him will never be whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some War of Heroes angst with the lettuce siblings because honestly we need more of them in this fandom.

** Day 3: Empty Shell **

Seiros sits by her brother’s bedside while he rests. But while his body is slowly healing, his mind and heart seem far away from doing so.

She remembers Cichol as he was when they were younger; a spark full of life, his eyes full of mirth and love for the world around him. The gentlest protector as his fingers caressed the wings of a butterfly that had come to rest upon his hand, and the fiercest of warriors when anyone was foolish enough to threaten what he loved.

But now, it is all gone. Their Mother, their kin, the woman Cichol had loved so passionately that it hurt Seiros to even think of it. And all he had left; Cethleann, his Light, lying comatose on the verge of death.

No wonder her brother seems to have lost his mind.

Cichol’s eyes have no light in them. Just two endless pools of dull green, staring into nothing. He still can’t move on his own while the fractures across his spine heal, and so Seiros, Macuil and Indech are taking turns tending to him.

He doesn’t speak, but she knows he hates it.

“I brought you something to eat, sweet brother.” Seiros says now as she gingerly sits by him, a bowl of broth cradled in her hands. It’s nothing fancy, but he needs to eat if he’s to ever regain his strength.

Unfortunately, he hasn’t been doing much eating. Seiros doesn’t think it’ll be any different today.

Cichol, predictably, doesn’t even turn to look at her. There’s nothing in his expression to indicate that he knows she’s there with him. There’s nothing in his expression _at all_.

Seiros thinks back to how they played together when they were little. How they fought and scratched and snarled at each other like tiny savage beasts, but when it came to it she would never let anyone lay a finger upon her little brother’s hair. Sometimes, she’d even try to beat up Macuil when he was the one to torment poor Cichol. Of course, they’d all make up by the end of the day, and would sleep in a warm, many-limbed pile by their Mother’s embrace when night fell.

But all of this had been so long ago, and now all that remains is the pain, the bitterness, the resentment. The loss, the pit inside each one of them that will never again be filled. The pieces missing that cannot be put back together.

Seiros has lost everything. She has lost her beloved Mother, all of her friends and almost all of her family. But it’s the thought of something happen to her youngest brother, that puts all of that to shame with the pain it threatens to bring.

“Dear Cichol… Please, return to us, my brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seiros really said "Only I can bully my little brother, everyone else who as much as looks at him funny go fuck yourself".


	4. Day 4: Painful Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU in which everything is the same but dragon transformation works a bit like werewolf transformation under the moon. 
> 
> Seteth can no longer hide, but Jeralt has no plans to leave him.

** Day 4: Painful transformation **

Seteth lied on the floor, wheezing as the transformation he’d held back for so long took over him.

He really had been a fool, to think that he could hide forever. To think that the savage beast within him wouldn’t come back eventually, to destroy every last bit of safety he’d built for himself and Flayn all these years.

Glazed emerald eyes stared at the moon as its rays illuminated the room; gentle caresses upon the diamond-hard scales that had bloomed below his eyes and across his forehead. Seteth gasped, a hand clawing at his chest where his heart beat erratically, sending spasms across his body. His fingers scraped across his skin, the claws that had already come out opening gashes on his skin. The scent of his own blood filled his nostrils and he hissed, his every instinct yelling for him to _hunt._ To sink his fangs into the soft flesh of his prey as he hadn’t done in ages. For so long, he’d gone against his nature, against the ways of his kind. And now, it seemed as if he’d be unable to resist the urge.

But no, he had to. Nobody had to know what he and Flayn truly were. It would surely mean their demise, if their secret came to the light. If he could only restrain himself, just enough for the transformation to be partial… then it would be alright as soon as morning arrived. Nobody would ever know what had transpired in the darkness of his room, and he could always find a viable excuse for the gashes he’d caused to himself.

If only…

Seteth threw his head back and cried out. His spine cracked, bones bending as his body changed slowly, agonisingly. Another problem that arose from not having transformed for so long; it seemed almost as if he’d forgotten how to, and it made the process even more painful that he recalled.

Lost in his torment as he was, Seteth wouldn’t have heard his door click open, had his senses not already been enhanced. As the doorknob turned, panic filled his every fiber- _no, no no no no no go away go away you can’t see_ -

The scent of armour, sweat and weapons’ oil tingled his nose, and he almost sobbed half in relief, half in terror.

“Hey, you were late for dinner and- _Seteth_?!”

Seteth whimpered from his place on the floor.

“J… Jeralt…”

His voice came out hoarse with pain. Ashamed, Seteth laid his forehead down upon the hard wooden panels of the floor. His head hurt too much to think, and he knew from the sudden weight on his head that his deer-like horns had materialised as well. He whimpered, willing the darkness to take him before he could hear Jeralt’s appalled exclamations, before his lover would begin calling him a monster.

The darkness never came, but neither did Jeralt’s curses.

Instead, Seteth felt the knight’s hand firm but gentle on his shoulder. The touch burned, his skin warm and hypersensitive, and yet it was such a welcome sensation. Jeralt’s warmth enveloped him as the knight wrapped his arms around him, and a few moments later he felt the soft mattress of his bed underneath him. Jeralt lifted his head gently, laying it on the pillow and taking the chance to caress the matted verdant curls that tumbled over his lover’s pale, sweating face.

“It’s alright.” Seteth heard Jeralt whisper, the other man’s words reaching him even through the nightmarish haze of the transformation.

“I’m right here. You’ll be okay.”

Seteth had the strength to only whimper, his clawed fingers tearing at the bedsheets. And yet a small part of him felt only relief- because Jeralt hadn’t hated him, hadn’t ran away in fear or disgust, hadn’t called him a monster.

Jeralt dragged the blankets over the Saint’s shivering body, taking care to even untangle his serpentine tail from his limbs and tuck it underneath the covers. When that was done, he knelt by the bed and took Seteth’s hand into his, ignoring the hard scales and the sharp claws that could have surely shredded his skin to ribbons.

“Can you hear me, Seteth? You’re alright. You’ll get through this… whatever it is.”

 _Whatever it is…_ Jeralt hadn’t even asked for an explanation. He had only focused on taking care of him, despite him having turned halfway through into a dragon in the middle of his bedroom. And even then, Jeralt had talked to him, touched him, as if nothing had changed. As if he were still the simple human man he’d known for the past few months.

Seteth let out a choked sob of unspeakable relief, finally allowing the full extend of the transformation to wash over him like a wave.

“Jeralt… please- please just- stay with me.”

Darkness closed in, but Seteth still heard Jeralt’s calm, steady voice call back to him.

“I will, Seteth. I always will.”


	5. Day 5: Panic Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edelgard holds Flayn after a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We need more Edelflayn, that's all there is to it. These two have been through so many similar experiences, their captivity by the Agarthans being the most glaring one. So I'm surprised that few others seemed to have thought of this ship! Give Flayn a girlfriend 2020.

** Day 5: Panic Attack **

_It’s all around her in the darkness; the screaming, the overwhelming scent of blood and charred flesh, the infernal red flashes surrounding her as the villains wielding the corpses of her family move closer. Her mother’s cry pierces her heart, her father’s agonised roars shattering whatever remains._

Flayn woke with a jolt, realising too late that a scream tore out of her gaping mouth. Her fingers clung to the bedsheets as her joints turned white, her body shaking as she tried to kick the blankets off. She felt trapped; the walls of her dimly lit bedroom closing in, suffocating her as her lungs shrank and shrank, her breath coming out in rapid agonised gasps. She let out a small sob, terrified that they were holding her again, they were poking and prodding at her with their tongs and syringes, they were draining her blood…

She barely registered the gentle touch upon her shoulder, and when she did, she automatically tried to push her companion away- no, they wouldn’t take her again, they wouldn’t chain her-

“Flayn! Calm down, it’s me. You were having a nightmare.”

The voice was familiar; feminine yet stern, grounding her. Flayn sniffled and turned around, coming face to face with Edelgard. She almost collapsed with relief.

“E-Edelgard… I’m sorry for- for waking you.”

It had become customary for the two girls to share a bed for the past few months of turbulent war. Seteth often lay with Jeralt, and Flayn felt just as safe with Edelgard sleeping next to her, as she did with her father. And Edelgard no longer seemed disgusted or even put off but what Flayn really was; no, she viewed her as an equal. As someone worthy of her love.

So many days and nights had young Cethleann dreamt of finding her knight in shining armour, her prince.

Who would have it would have been a princess instead?

Now she buried herself inside the other girl’s arms, trying to stop herself from shaking. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t- her breaths came fast and shallow, her body trembling as darkness ebbed at the corners of her vision.

“I-I-I’m scared-“ Flayn whimpered. “Their voices- I hear them… they-they want me dead! They want me t-turned into a weapon!”

Her voice crescendoed to a high-pitched wail, and she was certain she was going to die of fright; but Edelgard’s fingers treaded through her tangled curls slowly, until her heartbeat began to slow down. The overwhelming terror didn’t leave, but at least her body seemed to readjust to a semblance of normality.

As soon as Flayn had stopped trembling, Edelgard placed two slender fingers under her chin, tipping her head up. Emerald eyes met lavender ones in the dim candlelight of the chamber.

“I know the fear of nightmares.” Edelgard said. Her voice held no pity, as always, but its steadiness helped ease Flayn just a little more.

“Sometimes, you dream as if you’ll never be free of those that caged you. But you are free now. They might always be after you, but you mustn’t give them the satisfaction of succumbing to that fear.”

Edelgard looked away, a sign that she was at least moderately embarrassed by the next thing that was going to come out of her mouth.

“I… I will protect you, Flayn. They will not lay their hands on you again.”

Flayn sniffled again, and nodded. Her voice felt too weak to utter words of gratitude, but she was certain Edelgard knew how grateful she truly felt.

Maybe she’d never stop being afraid, yes. Maybe the nightmares would never leave. But at least now, she didn’t have to face them all on her own. That, in and on itself, was enough to keep her going.


	6. Day 6: Lifted by the Neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seteth finds himself in a perilous situation, but thankfully Jeralt will always have his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More SetJeralt because that's how we roll in this house. Tomorrow it's Rhealeth though, so stay tuned!

** Day 6: Lifted by the Neck **

****

The battle had dragged on for so long. Seteth had lost track of time, the only indication that the day was progressing past the bloody onslaught being the ever-darkening sky, as the sun dipped closer and closer to the horizon. And yet even as night fell, the enemy’s attack remained relentless. Even he, with his increased stamina, was beginning to feel the effects of exhaustion upon him. His lance arm sagged with the weight of his weapon, his breath hitching at the back of his throat as he struggled to keep moving forward.

So when the enemy grappler fell upon him, fresh from a reinforcement group that had just come to add to the Imperial Army’s numbers, there was little he could do.

The other man was taller than even Seteth was, and certainly bulkier. He wasn’t limping with exhaustion and earlier injuries either, and it was a ridiculously easy feat to knock the lance out of Seteth’s shaking hands. The Saint gulped, taking a few steps backward and trying to win himself some time. As rare as the occasion was, he was clearly in a disadvantage.

There was little do be done to delay the inevitable. Seteth led the grappler on by taunting and evading, but it wasn’t long before fatigue caused him to make a mistake. He lost his footing, falling to the side; and the grappler lunged forward, his giant palm closing easily around Seteth’s neck.

Seteth gasped as the enemy lifted him off the ground with as much ease as if he had been a ragdoll, armour and all. He hissed, trying to take a breath, but the grappler’s fingers tightened their grip around his neck. Soon, he began to choke.

_Is this it? Am I going to be strangled to death by a human enemy?_

Images of Flayn flashed behind his eyes as his vision blurred. No, he couldn’t give up just yet- he had to fight to the very end, he had to go back to his daughter…

Concentrating all of his efforts into breaking free, Seteth kicked his legs as viciously as possible. His boot collided with the grappler’s stomach, and the momentary weakness in the other man allowed the Saint to free himself from the chokehold. He fell gracelessly on the ground as the other man spat and cursed, and reached for the closest blade that caught his eye.

Unfortunately, fate didn’t seem to smile upon him, for the grappler regained his bearings way sooner than expected. He fell upon Seteth like an avalanche, grabbing him from the back of his neck and slamming his head to the ground over and over.

Seteth cried out, tasting blood in his mouth as he coughed, the crimson liquid dripping down his lips. Yet this all made him angrier- _no_ , Goddess damn him, he would _not_ down like a sack of bricks, smashed to death by some halfwit human meatsack. He struggled, turning around and punching his opponent in the face with all his might. Hoping this would be distraction enough, he tried to slip away, but the grappler grabbed him by the wrist and pinned him to the ground again, twisting his arm behind his back and pushing with all his weight.

The cracking sound of Seteth’s bones shattering was drowned out by his scream of pain. His vision blurred and his ears began to ring with the intensity of it, and for a moment all he could think of was _make it stop, oh Goddess make it stop_.

Weakened and unable to move, Seteth had began to almost accept his fate- but then he heard someone call his name, a familiar voice reaching out to him. And suddenly the grappler was dragged off of him, and he heard the sound of a blade slipping into unprotected flesh. He had scarcely begun to register what was truly happening, by the time Jeralt’s grime-splattered face entered his field of view.

“Seteth? Hey, Seteth! Can you hear me?”

Seteth groaned. His head pounded, his nostrils and mouth clogged by his blood. But the worst was his arm, the agony of his broken bones bringing him close to screaming. And yet…

“Jeralt… I- I think I owe you one after this, mhm?”

He smiled a little, his eyes blurry. He could barely make out Jeralt’s beloved face, but it didn’t matter. It was going to be alright, now that he wasn’t alone anymore.

“Will you ever stop hitching up a score? It’s not a competition, you fool.” The knight growled. His hand slipped under Seteth’s back, helping him into a sitting position. The movement jostled his arm, and Seteth couldn’t hold back a choked cry.

“Shit-“ Jeralt seemed to notice how the other man’s arm was bent in an unnatural angle. “Okay, okay. Just stay still for me. I’ll get ya to the camp so Manuela can help with that, a’ight?”

Seteth didn’t protest as Jeralt helped him up slowly, leading him to his horse. Despite the onslaught happening around it, the animal was perfectly calm. It neighed nervously when Seteth came near it, able to smell that he wasn’t entirely human, but Jeralt shushed it with a few quick words.

“Hold tight, yeah?” Jeralt said when he and Seteth were both safely on top of the saddle. Seteth leaned against Jeralt’s broad chest, too exhausted to protest or hold himself upright. Jeralt cursed, and spurred his horse on towards the direction of the Resistance Army’s encampment.

Seteth could feel his consciousness finally slipping away. Before he completely lost himself, however, he managed to look at Jeralt with a small, embarrassed smile on his bruised and bloodied face.

“Jeralt… Please do not let slip to anyone that I was put to shame by a grappler.”

And with that, he let the blissful darkness claim him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seteth said dumbass rights, I guess.  
> I have nothing against the grappler class, I just didn't think of any other class that could fit this scenario lol.


End file.
